There is an earth we cannot walk upon, for it is covered with our descriptions of it, from which blooms a distracting foliage.

There are truths you do not believe.

There are angles of passing time that house you and cause you to retract like the hours.

One smells the infinite here, in the morning before one has awoken, where one must deny what one believes in light of what one knows to be true.

Must this series be resolved, or may I wait here to be scattered again by the concerns of the sleeping?

Perhaps our frailties, as opposite extremes, must converge, and thus would we ignore the long periods of silence endured, and ascribe them to the faults of the days in which we rest and surpass each other’s edges.